GIJoe: A Quickie With the Baroness
by Tower of Babel
Summary: A story that reveals Baroness's true feelings about Destro. OneShot! COMPLETE


A Baroness Story

Her smooth, milky, white skin lolled beneath the warm, soapy water of the marble designed Jacuzzi sized bathtub. Filling the void of loneliness was her over-active imagination. Naked, the Baroness sanctioned herself to enjoy the relaxing bath.

She had beauty and power - something that most women of her judicious age would never have - but something that all women most certainly desired. Yet it was the basic of needs that all women pined for, for which she also had. She had fallen in love with a man who had captured her heart and to whom she eventually married, a man who showered her with everything she had ever wanted.

"Oh James, you're to good to me," she spoke softly, referring to Destro, her husband and lover.

She closed her eyes for just a moment and dreamed of a perfect world where Destro was the ruler of the world and she was his queen. The leaders of the world would bow at their feet and Destro would be Master of the world. And at their coronation Cobra Commander's head would be presented to him on a silver platter. But dreams were fashionably based on trite and conjecture and this dream was based on an idea that was strangely idealistic and unattainable. The leaders of the world backed G.I.Joe. And no matter what Destro did, his plans were continuously forted by America's freedom fighters. Vanquished in a puff of smoke.

Was it reliability? No. Was it a loyalty issue on the part of Destro's men? No. Was it treachery among the ranks? No. It was luck, nothing but blind, stupid, simple luck. That's all it was. G.I.Joe was lucky. Skill had nothing to do with it. Destro was a genius. The world should be his. But not even her fortune as part of an aristocratic family could buy Destro the world.

Her maidservants caught the Baroness's signals and they advanced to the Jacuzzi with towels in hand. Handing them to her Anastasia DeCobray covered her slender, striking body with white silkiness. Glistening in the morning sun via stained glass windows, her skin reflected the beauty that was she. She wrapped a towel around her voluptuous breasts and it clung to her like skin-tight vinyl. Her wet, limp hair dropped down upon her slender shoulders like a black knights conquest. Soap caressed her body and enveloped her silky, white skin with lovely persuasion.

"You may go," she told her two maidservants. And without hesitation they left her private chambers, which was situated in the North Wing of Destro's Trans-Carpathian Caste, in Scotland. And she was thus left alone with her thoughts, whims, desires and pleasurable ideologies.

Dropping the towel to the floor she walked out of her spacious bathroom and into her regal looking bedroom and over to her walk-in closet where she ruffled through her collection of well-known designer clothes, clothes that only super-models and movie stars appropriately wore to dinner parties, prominent gatherings and premier movie showings or award shows.

But with her notorious criminal background once buoyant dreams of striding down the red carpet were no longer achievable, there was only piece of clothing that she wore these days, one that showed her loyalty to her husband, branded with the symbol of his organization, the Iron Grenadiers: a black, sleek number that proportionately clung to her hourglass figure with attractiveness and authority.

In her days with Cobra, her glasses were stylized with the times, but now in a new century, a new world with endless possibilities to explore, with new and bright horizons beaming around every corner, she now wore glasses with a slightly elegant look: smaller, rectangular frames with tinted, reflective glass. They also gave her a younger, more generational look for the times and in this day and age, beauty was everything, more precious than gold.

Neglecting her nakedness, she laid out her uniform on her Louis XIV replica four posted bed with matching silk sheets and bed curtains and then crossed the room to her oval shaped dresser mirror with carved horse motif and sat down on a silk lined, cotton stuffed chair cushion. Here she proceeded to comb her hair with an elegant looking and expensive one of a kind made brush. She was very fastidious about her hair and she only wanted the finest workmanship from the finest craftsman to touch her fine, black hair. That made her conceited in a way, but she didn't mind the title.

One hundred strokes was her desired regime in combing her hair, then she finished by blowing drying with pressurized air suited to a regulated temperature she specified; the blow dryer feed her naked neck with the warm air of a man's breathe and for a split second she felt Destro was with her, beside her. But she knew he wasn't. Because Destro was off on a mission of vital importance.

Oh how she wished he was here right now to make sweet, passionate love to her. His soft, gentle hands pressed against the curvaceous of her naked flesh, his hot breath against the nape of her neck, his strong, muscular arms wrapped around her desirable body.

And at that very moment a droplet of cold water fell from her hair and cascaded between her breasts, pushed its way through their firm fix and streamlined down her smooth, sensual stomach, slightly tickling the tiny hairs and down to where she dared not say, sending her into a frenzy of sexual elation, but relenting on her womanly desires, she stopped herself from expressing her present wants, she would safe herself, allow her passion to burn deeply, for when Destro returned.

Yet even though Destro wasn't with her she was never alone when he was away, his presence was always felt. For Christmas two years ago, he gave her a Tanzanite blue-purple opal pendant surrounded by shimmering diamonds in a floral design. Gently picking it up in her hand from her dresser, she slipped it around her neck and laid the pendant just above the cavity of her breasts. Smiling, she looked at herself in the mirror.

"Return to me soon, my husband. I yearn for your gentle touch," she said softly, gazing at the pendant with a passion for her husband that she would cherish forever.

Afterwards she replaced the pendant back into its velvet lined box and dressed into her black, skin-tight uniform, with knee-high boots and high heels; put on her glasses and left her private chambers. While Destro was away she was in charge and there was work to be done. After all, the Iron Grenadiers wasn't an organization that ran itself.


End file.
